The Sultan's Test
Not a single day had been comfortable since becoming Yusuf.
On the first day, poison appeared before breakfast, and after that, even though he had deliberately baited them, he had nearly been stabbed.
Thankfully, because things had flowed according to plan, he cried out, “Allahu Akbar,” and successfully deceived the Sultan. He had barely caught his breath when, because of a traitor, never mind becoming a Sanjak-bey, he had nearly gone to meet Allah.
The fact that all this had happened in just four days—at this point, they ought to acknowledge him even if he grabbed Allah by the collar.
‘What would I have done without luck?’
Had Zhuge Liang cried out, “Do your utmost and await Heaven’s will,” for nothing?
No matter how hard a person tried, if Heaven did not favor them, they were doomed to fail. It was only because fortune had followed him that he had overcome the crisis.
But he had no intention of hoping fortune would stay with him going forward.
Misfortune always found those who grew drunk on luck.
‘Was it for nothing that they said at NYU Law School that one-third of grand-prize lottery winners end up bankrupt?’
Lottery winners might go bankrupt, but he was in a situation where a single slip meant death, so he had to keep his wits about him.
With Luck 10, what you hoped for wasn’t success born of fortune, but a perfect plan not failing due to ill luck.
Therefore, he had to move busily without a moment’s rest.
Hasan, that was.
“Hasan!!”
“Yes, Your Highness!!”
“Leave the weapons and wheat prices you’ve looked up here. Come back after estimating how much prices will change if the war lasts about four years. If you compare it with the fluctuations during the last war, something approximate should come out, yes?”
“Understood!”
Watching Hasan disappear like the wind despite his chubby frame, Yusuf let out a satisfied smile.
Setting aside his loyalty, Hasan was at least useful in terms of ability.
While his knowledge was on par with no mere scholar, the experience he had gained from over ten years of rolling around as a merchant was exactly what Yusuf needed.
‘Of course, having just one Hasan wasn’t nearly enough.’
Every time he brought up the ages of his other brothers and said he was at a disadvantage, it wasn’t simply because they had built their forces first.
In an era where early marriage was the norm, with children bearing children, it was also a problem that he had nephews aplenty whom he had never even seen once.
If it were merely a matter of having many nephews, he would just toss them toys and say, “If this uncle becomes Sultan, I’ll spare your lives. Good?” But the problem was that the title Şehzade was attached to these nephews’ names as well.
‘Şehzade is not simply a title meaning prince, but precisely a successor to the throne.’
It was a rather special case, but among the sons of Selim I, who became Sultan, Üveys had been driven out of the harem while his mother was pregnant, and she married another man. Though he was a prince by blood, he was treated as illegitimate and did not bear the title Şehzade.
At any rate, the conclusion was that since the nephews were also Şehzades, they would become Sanjak-beys, and consequently become competitors going forward.
‘And since they’ll receive support from their fathers and become solid allies, they’ll be even more troublesome.’
Even Selim I had launched a rebellion but was defeated by the Sultan, then briefly taken refuge with his son Suleiman, and sought another opportunity to usurp the throne.
Even outside such cases, when deliberating whom to support as the next Sultan, whether one had a successor to follow after was also included in the evaluation criteria.
This gap could not be bridged no matter how much he wracked his brain.
‘But that didn’t mean he could assassinate all his nephews….’
If he had the ability to do that, he wouldn’t be killing snot-nosed brats but his other brothers instead.
Puberty hadn’t even arrived, so he couldn’t have children yet, and even if he had them now, it was already too late.
“The deck is stacked against me in more ways than one anyway, and if you think about it, I’m the only one struggling. Besides, I haven’t even become a Sanjak-bey yet.”
He couldn’t even stand yet, but he was worrying about when to run.
Having shaken off his worries, Yusuf began reading the documents Hasan had left behind.
As Yusuf was concentrating, a knock and a servant’s voice reached his ears.
“Your Highness, His Padishah commands you to enter the palace at once.”
The time to decide his fate had finally arrived.
∗ ∗ ∗
The Sultan’s palace was called Yeni Sarayı, meaning New Palace.
Later, cannons would be placed on both sides of the palace entrance, and combining top (cannon) and kapi (gate), it would come to be called Topkapi Palace.
Seeing a place that would become a tourist destination in modern times being used as a palace was a stranger feeling than he had thought.
“Make way!”
But there was no time to look around leisurely.
Of the four courtyards, the First Courtyard was open to commoners, and with places like the infirmary, firewood storage, and bakery, it teemed with people.
The Janissaries assigned as escorts from the courtyard parted the crowd, allowing comfortable entry to the Second Courtyard.
From the Second Courtyard, commoners were forbidden entry, so this could be said to be the true palace, and passing through the Gate of Salutation, Yusuf caught a terrible stench of rot.
Turning his head to find the source of the smell, Yusuf saw heads placed upon the marbles.
“Are these the ones who were my escorts and the eunuch who gave the orders?”
“Yes. Are they a bit gruesome to look at?”
The Janissaries burst into snickering laughs as they looked at the faces filled with terrible terror.
It was his first time seeing dead people, and since they had died because of his judgment, his stomach churned. But Yusuf did not show it.
Though it was to survive, his determination to become Sultan was by no means a lighthearted one.
Considering the blood and corpses he would pile up going forward, those were merely an extremely small part.
‘Far from meeting Allah, I’ll fall straight into Hell.’
Toward the Janissaries watching him as if enjoying his reaction, Yusuf replied coldly.
“The stench is terrible, yet you stand guard beside them admirably. Clear them away before the smell grows worse.”
“…Understood.”
Showing not a hint of agitation on the outside, Yusuf observed the Janissaries’ actions closely.
At the Gate of Salutation, there had originally been a well where executioners washed their hands and blades, and two marble blocks upon which beheaded heads were placed, but.
‘Still, to leave rotting heads reeking to high heaven inside the palace? Anyone would think an assassination attempt on the Sultan had occurred.’
It was excessive for what was, at best, an attempted assassination of an unimportant prince.
Moreover, since they were not the assassin’s heads but the heads of the guard corps who had failed in their duty, there was only one thing he could infer.
‘A test? How impressive.’
The idea that they deliberately showed him the people who had died because of him.
Seeing the Janissaries—who obeyed only the Sultan’s commands—silently clearing away the beheaded heads made him even more certain.
It was a cruel yet truly Ottoman-style test.
‘Becoming a Sanjak-bey is truly hard. This is going to give me quite the trauma.’
Contrary to his inner thoughts, Yusuf walked with composure.
He had not heard the Janissaries’ mockery, so he could consider this hurdle safely passed for now.
To the right of the Second Courtyard was the Palace Kitchens, a massive kitchen that consumed two hundred sheep daily, and to the left was the building where the Divan was held.
The Divan was an imperial council in which the viziers gathered.
They discussed and reviewed the empire’s political, administrative, military, customary, religious, judicial, and fiscal affairs, as well as grievances and lawsuits. One could simply think of it as Joseon’s State Council.
From the Second Courtyard, only those belonging to the palace were present, and the people he passed on the way all showed courtesy to Yusuf while displaying curiosity.
‘Still just curiosity? Well, it’s better than indifference.’
One couldn’t be full after the first spoonful.
Turning those gazes into support was something he would have to accomplish going forward.
The Gate of Felicity, the entrance to the Third Courtyard, looked at a glance like a building with a domed roof, unlike the previous gates.
The Gate of Felicity, passable only by the Sultan and his closest confidants, was under stricter guard than any of the preceding places.
Upon passing through the gate, the beauty of the Third Courtyard, which had been invisible during his last visit because it had been a dark night, came into Yusuf’s view at a glance.
‘So this is where I’ll either hold a splendid enthronement ceremony or meet a miserable end.’
A prince’s life was truly like that of a moth to a flame.
A chief eunuch approached Yusuf, who was indulging in pointless sentiment.
“Your Highness, please follow me.”
The place he was led to was the same Sultan’s chamber as before, and inside the open door was not only the Sultan.
“I greet His Padishah.”
The Sultan gestured toward Yusuf, who was paying his respects.
“Come closer.”
As commanded, Yusuf approached closer and was able to see more clearly the person standing beside the Sultan.
Bayezid II was at an age where he could be called elderly, but the person beside him was an old man who could drop dead at any moment without it being strange.
As if aware that Yusuf was looking, the Sultan asked with a smile.
“Do you know who he is?”
“Is it not Grand Vizier Çandarlı Ibrahim Pasha?”
“Haha, correct. You saw him during the circumcision ceremony, did you not?”
Yusuf expressed agreement at the Sultan’s words, which needlessly dredged up a painful memory.
Pasha was a title attached to high-ranking officials or senior military officers, and the Grand Vizier was the pinnacle of Ottoman officialdom.
He could be called the most powerful man of the current era, excluding the Sultan.
‘So what? He’s going to die within the year anyway.’
Ibrahim would die during the war with Venice, and after him, Mesih Pasha, the nephew of Constantine XI, the last emperor of the Roman Empire, would rise to Grand Vizier.
That Mesih Pasha would also die after two years.
Fine words they were, Grand Vizier, but they died in war, died suppressing rebels, died putting out fires, and if they barely scraped by and survived, they were executed by the Sultan.
It was hard to find someone among them who met a good end.
“But what brings the Grand Vizier here?”
“Ibrahim said he had something to ask you.”
Knowing that this, too, was a kind of test, Yusuf looked at the Grand Vizier, who stepped forward.
“You have changed greatly since the circumcision ceremony. The empire’s future seems bright. And thank you for making me feel that Allah’s grace is with you.”
“Not at all.”
What was he getting at with such a long tongue?
Of course, he acted humble outwardly, and the Grand Vizier continued.
“I heard from His Padishah. You foresaw the birth of a Shiite state in the east, and said you would stop them, did you not?”
“That is correct.”
“But is there an Imam who will become their leader?”
The greatest difference between Sunnis and Shiites was that while Sunnis were those who followed the words, actions, and practices of Muhammad, Shiites were those who followed bloodline.
In Sunni Islam, imams were like Protestant pastors, but in Shia Islam, the term referred to someone who carried Muhammad’s bloodline.
That was why, in Iran, a Shia state, after the Islamic Revolution the imam—and supreme leader, the Rahbar—held power greater than the president’s.
The Grand Vizier’s point was sharp, but Yusuf answered as if it were nothing.
“He doesn’t need to be a real imam. He can just call himself one.”
“How does that make any sen—”
Yusuf cut the Grand Vizier off with almost rude abruptness.
Because if he let himself be overwhelmed by a political monster who had been through every trial imaginable, there would be no answer.
“Why not? If he’s trying to build a Shia empire, I can see him doing that.”
In fact, Ismail I, who would soon found the Safavid Empire, called himself a descendant of the imams, but research showed he was likely a Turkic-speaking Kurd, so there was a high chance it was nothing more than self-proclamation.
Of course, he couldn’t use that to persuade them now.
“We’ll know later, won’t we? Whose words were right.”
“Understood.”
Knowing that this was something they would only talk past each other on, the two moved on to the next topic.
“Who do you think will win the coming war, Your Highness?”
“Us, obviously.”
There might be a butterfly effect, but how many days had it even been since he became Yusuf? Would there really have been a change big enough for them to lose the war?
At his firm answer, the Grand Vizier smiled faintly and asked in a keen tone.
“Then what choice should our empire make after victory? Do you believe we must devote all our strength to bringing down the Shia empire that may soon arise?”
At that question, Yusuf gave a derisive laugh.
The idea of a man who had never so much as spun a globe challenging him to a battle of world history was nothing short of laughable.
∗ ∗ ∗
There are currents of the age that cannot be changed by human effort alone.
Edison lobbied and waged media campaigns to make people use his direct current system instead of the alternating current invented by Tesla. To make alternating current look dangerous, he electrocuted cats and dogs in public and even created the electric chair for executions, but in the end, alternating current won.
Eastman Kodak, the very byword for film cameras, developed a digital camera first in 1975, but because it feared threatening the film market and did not commercialize it, the company eventually went bankrupt.
And at this point in time, too, there was such an irresistible current of the age.
‘That is the pioneering of new sea routes.’
No matter how much he became sultan and tore the Europeans’ hair out by the roots, he could not stop those people from shouting, “India! Spices! Hehehe.”
When he knew perfectly well how things would unfold, they wanted to have a death match with the Safavid Empire over Iranian lands?
Are you insane, human?
Still, if the question was whether to fight or not.
“Of course we have to fight.”
“Your High—”
He raised a hand to stop the Grand Vizier, who lunged in as if he had been waiting for that.
“Fighting isn’t optional. If the state that’s going to appear presents itself as Shia, it will make our empire its main enemy, and the conflict between Sunni and Shia will grow even worse.”
In truth, at present, the conflict and mutual hatred between Sunni and Shia were not as severe as in the modern era, but once the Qizilbash, the founding group of the Safavid Empire and a band of mounted warriors, rose to prominence, the emotional rift would deepen further.
At the Grand Vizier’s look, which clearly said he did not believe him, Yusuf clicked his tongue.
‘As if I’m saying this because I want to fight.’
If Selim had not waged a holy war against the Safavid Empire on his own and gained the military’s support, Yusuf himself would not have gone all the way to Trabzon.
He would have been assigned to the Balkans, close to the capital, and spent his days enjoying Greek culture until Bayezid II began wavering back and forth.
To put it bluntly, even if they got lucky and occupied Safavid lands, the only thing that came to mind was oil. But oil drilling was no child’s play, and he would die of old age while waiting to exploit it.
‘When I’m already worried about how many more years I have left, fighting to the death against a monster like Ismail I for the sake of something hundreds of years in the future really doesn’t balance out.’
There were monstrous figures in this era.
Selim and Suleiman, who would conquer lands across three continents and create an empire like the demon king of European history.
Ismail I, who at the age of fifteen occupied Tabriz, the capital of the Aq Qoyunlu, and founded the Safavid dynasty.
And even Charles V, who inherited the largest territory in European history, became the original ruler of an empire on which the sun never set, and held a variety of titles such as Holy Roman Emperor, King of Spain, and ruler of Italy.
None of these monsters of the age was an easy opponent.
“Even aside from religion, if we think of the empire’s future, we have no choice but to fight.”
“The future?”
The sultan stroked his chin, as if intrigued.
“What is the future of our empire that you envision?”
“The Mediterranean.”
One might ask why he was talking about the Mediterranean after going on about the pioneering of new sea routes, but for the Ottomans, even if they died and came back to life, it was the Mediterranean.
There was a reason Rome had expanded its power with the Mediterranean at its center.
Seeing the sultan’s interest cool sharply because it was such an obvious thing to say, Yusuf continued.
“We must conquer the Mamluk Sultanate and take the Mediterranean and the Red Sea.”
The Mamluk Sultanate was a state that held the Red Sea and part of the Mediterranean.
It was also a wealthy country that collected enormous fees from the trade connecting Europe and the Indian Ocean.
“As Your Majesty knows, to put it coldly, the empire is not the center of trade. Goods like spices enter through the sea.”
Land trade, the kind people thought of when they heard the so-called Silk Road, had briefly grown in importance during the Pax Mongolica, but when the Mongols collapsed in the mid-fourteenth century, the northern route passing through Ottoman lands became secondary.
Ultimately, even without the pioneering of new sea routes, maritime trade routes were of tremendous importance.
‘Well, up to this point, it’s the kind of answer you’d get from any merchant in the capital.’
He could tell just from the sultan’s face, which looked as if he were watching a child’s talent show.
So he needed to unfold a different story.
“At present, the West is working to find a new trade route to India.”
Vasco da Gama, who had departed Lisbon last year, had already arrived in India and been told by a Tunisian merchant there, “Damn you, how did you get all the way here?”
Even if the sultan did not know that much, Portugal had been working to develop sea routes since the days of Prince Henry the Navigator decades earlier, so someone of the sultan’s position would know.
“If that effort bears fruit, the empire’s profits will clearly decrease, so we must conquer the Mamluks and seize the trade route.”
The fact that conquering the Mamluks meant he could drink coffee was also important.
It was true that he was crazy about coffee, but he was not such an addict that he would propose a war of conquest simply because he wanted to drink it.
However, coffee, which spread to Europe through the Ottomans, served as a reliable source of revenue for the Ottoman treasury.
“If the empire attacks, the Mamluks will seek allies to fight alongside them.”
“You mean that newly born Shia state.”
“Even if no Shia state appears, someone will soon emerge to take the place of the already faltering Aq Qoyunlu, and they will ally with the Mamluks to resist the expanding empire.”
To be honest, the plunder Europe would carry out in the New World was an even greater threat than their opening of a sea route to India, but he could not mention that much.
‘Even the European bastards who discovered it believe it’s India and call the natives Indians, so if I start talking about the New World, they’ll just treat me like a madman.’
As an aside, the very fact that they called them Indians showed that the Europeans still had a poor understanding of world geography.
Two hundred years had passed since Marco Polo wrote The Travels of Marco Polo, and yet they did not even know where India was, so they called the place India rather than Cathay, meaning China, or Zipangu, meaning Japan.
Even Joseon had produced a map showing Africa during the reign of Taejong in 1402, a hundred years ago, so there was nothing more to say.
At Yusuf’s words, the sultan lifted the corners of his mouth slightly.
“A reasonable argument. Then do you think the empire can conquer the Mamluks?”
“Of course. The Mamluk cavalry cannot defeat the empire’s artillery and Janissaries.”
The Ottoman army of this era was a cutting-edge military, like modern America.
After all, in an age when others were shooting bows and crossbows, they actively used hand cannons and large artillery.
Perhaps pleased by the praise for the Janissaries, the imperial guard, the sultan burst into hearty laughter, while the Grand Vizier frowned slightly.
“Your insight is excellent beyond your years.”
“Thank you.”
Just as Yusuf thought he had made it through the crisis, the Grand Vizier opened his mouth.
“Since Your Highness’s insight is so outstanding, may this humble servant ask one more thing?”
From the look of it, it was obvious he was going to nitpick again, so Yusuf wanted to say no, but since the sultan showed interest, he had no choice.
‘I’ll let it slide since you’re going to die before me anyway.’
Suppressing the urge to attack an old man, Yusuf nodded readily.
“Go ahead and speak.”
“Then I shall ask. As Your Highness says, we may be able to conquer the Mamluks, but what do you think we should do to reduce our losses even slightly?”
It was a filthy question to ask a mere eleven-year-old.
“Seeing as you’re asking, I take it this isn’t an easy question for you either, Grand Vizier?”
The Grand Vizier’s face flushed faintly.
Because Yusuf had indirectly mocked him for asking a question he himself could not answer.
Even if he ended it here, he had already shown more than expected, and the sultan would let it pass in satisfaction, but it felt a little disappointing to stop now.
“If it were me, I’d induce the Mamluks to dig a canal.”
“A canal, you say?”
“Yes, a canal linking the Mediterranean and the Red Sea.”
Human thoughts are all more or less similar.
The idea that it would be good to connect the Red Sea and the Mediterranean had existed since before the Common Era, and from the time of Darius I of the Persian Empire until 767, a canal had operated for nearly a thousand years.
Of course, unlike the modern Suez Canal, it was not a straight line, but an indirect connection through the lower Nile, valleys, lakes, and so on. Even that, however, had sufficient value.
“I heard there were already discussions about a canal between Venice and the Mamluks?”
“There was such a matter.”
When Portugal reached the Cape of Good Hope in 1488, concern that Portugal would monopolize the spice trade had already brought such talk to the surface.
Since it had been quite some time, the Grand Vizier pondered briefly before confirming it, though his face showed surprise.
Because the prince had pinpointed something he himself only vaguely remembered.
“If the empire wins the coming war with Venice, then Venice, having lost hegemony over the eastern Mediterranean, will have to find a way out. A canal would be more than enough to become that way out.”
“…If the canal is completed, would that not be unfavorable to us instead?”
Of course. Once it was built, they would rake in money hand over fist.
Using the Suez Canal could shorten the route by as much as 9,000 kilometers compared to going around the Cape of Good Hope in Africa.
The sea route Portugal had labored so hard to pioneer might effectively become meaningless. With that much of a difference in distance, competing on price would be impossible.
“Once it’s completed, that is. After the war with us ends, and Venice starts negotiating with the Mamluks, it’ll take at least ten years no matter how quickly they move, won’t it?”
When people start fiercely debating who will provide how much funding and how the profits will be divided, ten years pass in the blink of an eye.
“And even if the negotiations succeed, it won’t be construction that ends quickly, so we should set aside another ten years for that. If the Mamluks exhaust a vast amount of money on the construction and their finances deteriorate, we can conquer them before it’s finished.”
Even if the construction never proceeded, it would still break even; and if things went according to plan, they could not only conquer the Mamluks with ease, but also swallow up a half-finished canal.
It was at least the best solution he could offer for now, but as the Grand Vizier looked ready to object, displeased by something, the Sultan stopped him.
“Ibrahim, that is enough. This is your defeat.”
“…Understood.”
Hearing him speak of defeat, Yusuf could tell that, just as he had thought, the Grand Vizier had opposed his appointment as sanjak-bey.
Having been defeated by a mere child who had not even reached puberty, he probably wouldn’t be able to show his face for a while.
The Sultan cast the Grand Vizier a pathetic look, then turned his head toward Yusuf.
“Shehzade Yusuf.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
“I appoint you as sanjak-bey of Trabzon, and Selim as sanjak-bey of Teke. You will have three months.”
“Understood!”
Yusuf paid his respects, feeling his heart pound.
At last, the true beginning had come.
∗ ∗ ∗
The three-month period was for Selim, who had suddenly received orders to relocate, but it was also important time for Yusuf.
‘There’s no way that man will step down quietly.’
Selim had been appointed sanjak-bey of Trabzon in 1481, which meant he had been there for eighteen years. To Yusuf, it was no different from a tiger’s den.
Since he had to mind the Sultan’s gaze, he wouldn’t be able to play tricks openly, but he was sure to leave mines planted everywhere to prevent Yusuf from governing properly.
“Well, if I were afraid of that, I wouldn’t have chosen Trabzon.”
If he had to walk a thorny path anyway, it was better to walk one so dangerous that others would look upon it in awe.
In the Ottoman Empire, a hothouse flower could not become Sultan.
Since the choice had been settled on Trabzon, just as he had planned, it was time to move.
“Hassan!!!”
“Yes!! Your Highness!!!”
As if he had been waiting to be called, Hassan rushed in like the wind.
Perhaps the strain on his mind and body over the past few days had been severe, for he had lost some weight, but he still had a long way to go.
‘That’s all visceral fat. The root of adult diseases.’
So if Yusuf wanted to make use of him for a long time, he had to put him on a strict diet starting now.
Yusuf rose from his seat and spoke to Hassan, who for some reason felt a chill run through him.
“Get ready to go out. We’re going to the slave market.”
There lay a puzzle piece for the future.